Opinion Field Marshal Asim Munir, of a Pakistan in denial

What was once a functioning, if fragile, federation now resembles a brittle union held together by force and fear. The traditional bargain between the Punjabi-dominated military elite and Pakistan’s diverse peripheries, always uneasy, is today under existential strain.

The founding premise of Pakistan was, in essence, a rejection: That the Muslims of the Subcontinent could not coexist with Hindus in a single democratic polity. This negative identity, born not of cultural confidence but of fear, was never accompanied by a coherent, inclusive national vision. The two-nation theory offered a religious identity, but no political architecture to contain the diversity of its own people.

And so, the army stepped in, not just as a defender of territory, but as the guardian of ideology. With a fragile political class, pliable judiciary, and weakened federal compact, the military filled the vacuum. Worse, it framed itself as the sole custodian of Pakistan’s “ideological frontiers”: A chilling phrase that placed dissent, federalism, and pluralism outside the bounds of loyalty and that has no analogue in any modern democracy.

In this sense, the military’s hold on power was not accidental; it was functional, but also ideological. Each phase of martial ascendancy has been legitimised by a logic of existential threat: From India, from internal disorder, from subversion. Indeed, the doctrine of “Islam in danger” proved remarkably elastic in justifying military supremacy.

In this schema, Islam became less a faith than a national armour. It was used to homogenise, suppress, and punish: Bengali aspirations were heresy; Baloch resistance was treason; Sindhi identity was sedition. When the people of East Pakistan rose in democratic revolt, they were crushed with genocidal violence. Bangladesh’s birth in 1971 was not merely a geopolitical event, it was the moment the idea of Pakistan cracked irreparably. Religion had failed to mask the reality of ethnic, linguistic, and political diversity.

And yet, the lesson was never learned. Today, Balochistan burns. Insurgents claim not just rights but independence. Leaders like Mir Yar Baloch declare freedom from a state they never felt part of. In Sindh, movements like the Jeay Sindh Freedom Movement demand justice for the disappeared and dignity for the dispossessed. In Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, the Pashtun Tahafuz Movement seeks demilitarisation and accountability from the very forces that claim to defend the republic.

This is not a state in control. It is a state in denial.

Instead of reconciling with its past, Pakistan has deepened its militarisation and outsourced parts of its “strategic depth” to terrorist proxies. The ISI’s long courtship of outfits like Lashkar-e-Taiba and Jaish-e-Mohammed is no secret. But what is less understood is how these groups serve a dual purpose: Projecting power abroad while stoking nationalist fervour at home. It is a strategy that has won short-term tactical gain at the cost of long-term self-destruction.

The recent anti-terror operation by Indian forces deep inside Pakistani territory, following a brutal attack in Pahalgam, is only the latest reminder that this infrastructure of terror is both a threat to the region and a cancer within Pakistan itself. And what is Rawalpindi’s response? A Field Marshal’s baton. Not introspection, not civilian dialogue, not constitutional federalism — but pageantry, hierarchy, and silence.

As Stephen P Cohen once wrote, the Pakistan army “is not just a military machine; it is the ultimate defender of the Pakistani idea”. But that very idea is fraying. What does Pakistan stand for today beyond its rejection of India and its invocation of Islam? Where is the inclusive, pluralist vision that can bind its peoples together without the constant resort to repression?

Bangladesh was the first great rupture. It revealed that religious identity alone cannot substitute for democracy, dignity, and recognition. Today, that same lesson is being written again, not in history books but in real time — through insurgencies, silenced voices, and the creeping retreat of the civilian state.

And yet, the response is not reform. It is a ritual. A baton, a ceremony, a Field Marshal’s rank. The stately choreography of decline.

Pakistan’s crisis is not simply that the military dominates. It is that there is nothing left to counterbalance it; no trusted political class, no independent judiciary of consequence, no credible national narrative. The state speaks only in one voice, and it wears epaulettes.

Faiz Ahmed Faiz, ever the conscience of a betrayed revolution, once wrote: “Ye daagh daagh ujaala, ye shab-gazida sahar/Woh intezaar tha jiska, ye woh sahar toh nahin (This stained light, this night-bitten dawn/This is not the dawn we waited for).” Nor, one suspects, is this the nation that its founders once imagined.

The writer is professor and dean of the School of International Studies at Jawaharlal Nehru University and honorary professor at the University of Melbourne. He was founding director of the Australia India Institute